//------------------------------// // Chapter 7 // Story: Spring Broke // by kudzuhaiku //------------------------------// Copperquick awoke to an empty room and experienced a surprising amount of panic when he saw that his daughter, Esmeralda wasn’t where he had left her. Bleary-eyed, he stumbled about for a bit, not quite remembering when he had enjoyed such a restful sleep, which had become a treasured, wonderful thing. The golden rays of late afternoon or perhaps early evening pierced through the drapes and he realised in his half-awake state that the room had a westward exposure. This was a much, much nicer room than the one he had been sleeping in, but he couldn’t complain. Technically, he was homeless, but he was also a volunteer at the Ministry of Foal Services, taking the late night on call role when he was done with school. It was a roof over Esmeralda’s precious head, so he didn’t make too much of a fuss, even when he was woken up to do his job, which happened more than one might think. All in all, he liked his job enough to keep doing it, finding a satisfying amount of meaning. As Copperquick came down the stairs, he heard the sound of Buttermilk’s voice coming from the kitchen. His pace quickened, but he was careful so he wouldn’t take a tumble down the hardwood stairs. Only one pony in this house used the stairs, and they were clearly made for her, with broad steps and sturdy construction. The sound of laughter came from the kitchen and he now passed through the living room, curious as to what was so funny. His ears perked at the sound of Esmeralda burbling and he hurried through the arched doorway into the kitchen, not stopping to think about why the door had such a high arch. He came to a sudden stop on the threshold, his hooves clicking on the tiles. A cat meowed, perhaps saying hello in the manner of cats, but Copperquick ignored that. A dark blue pegasus pony with a pale purple pompadour was staring at him. The pegasus was small, not much larger than Buttermilk, and he shared her slight, delicate build. “Daddums, this is Copper Quick. Copper, this is my Daddums, but I think he’d prefer it if you called him Mister Midge.” Buttermilk was holding Esmeralda in her forelegs and Esmeralda was holding her stuffed carrot. “Pleased to meet you, Sir.” Copperquick bowed his head a little and then just stood there, not quite knowing what to do, say, or how to react. The middle-aged blue pegasus was quiet, but smiling, which Copperquick took to be a good sign. It was a reserved smile though, revealing very little, and this was rather worrisome. Having a daughter himself now, Copperquick had something of an understanding about what Buttermilk’s father might be feeling. The pony touching his daughter had just walked into his kitchen and was now being introduced. Awkward. “Well, come on over and sit down so we can eat… make sure you leave a little room though, we’re going to see a movie,” Butter Fudge said as she gestured at the table. “Don’t worry, Mighty Midge doesn’t bite… much.” “Moomy, you’re terrible.” “Try it, Beezy, you might like it—” “Moomy, you’re terrible.” Doing as he was bid, Copperquick sauntered over to the table and sat down. Esmeralda was plopped into his forelegs and then Buttermilk went streaking off to help her mother move stuff from the stove to the table. Copperquick found that Midge wasn’t looking at him, but at his daughter, and for some reason this made Copperquick squirm a bit in his chair. A heavy cast iron pot with a hanging handle was plunked down upon a crocheted potholder and then Buttermilk was off again, her wings moving in a blur. Butter Fudge had a platter of biscuits on her wide back, and she moved with a smooth gait that suggested she had a great deal of poise for her immense size. “I’m going to put you down on the floor, and you’re not going to cry,” Copperquick said to his daughter. Blinking her amber eyes at him, Esmeralda seemed to be considering her father’s words and then she replied, “Erglerp?” “I am going to put you on your blanket right over there and everything is going to be just fine.” Doubtful, Copperquick’s ears bobbed as he stared into his daughter’s face, trying to discern her mood. Before he could reach a conclusion, she was plucked out of his embrace by Buttermilk and flown over to where her blanket was spread out over the floor. When she was put down, Esmeralda made a sad face, her lower lip quivered, and she hugged her bright orange stuffed carrot for comfort. Buttermilk hovered overhead, waiting, and smiling down to let the distraught filly know that everything was okay. The squall, dreadful though it might have been, passed and Esmeralda continued to hug her carrot while giving her father a longing, heartbreaking stare. Copperquick decided that he was okay with that. Supper was simple, hearty fare. Buttery red potatoes and broccoli florets with globs of gooey white cheese, ears of corn, biscuits, and baked beans that filled the kitchen with the mouth-watering scent of molasses when the lid was pulled off. All of this gave Copperquick a moment of pause as he considered the meal and the consequences of said meal. He was supposed to be sharing a bed with Buttermilk later. When he looked up, Butter Fudge was smiling at him and one eyebrow was raised. Oh, she was good. His unflappable Grittish politeness was in grave danger and a Trojan Pony was at the gate—his lips—demanding to be let inside. Undaunted, he smiled when Buttermilk began loading down his plate with food and did his best to stare Butter Fudge down, revealing that he was on to her and her nefarious plans. A tall glass of no-doubt fresh milk was served with the meal. “I hope you don’t mind onions… I find they give the beans a savoury flavour along with some brown sugar,” Butter Fudge said to Copperquick as they continued to stare. “And lots of garlic, of course.” Across the table, Midge was now smirking, but Copperquick didn’t see it. Buttermilk noticed though and then, with a faint gasp of shock, she realised that her mother was knee-deep in mischief. She plopped down in her chair beside Copperquick, cast a quick glance at Esmeralda, and then she too, joined Copperquick in staring at her mother. Clinging to her carrot, Esmeralda was fretful and watched every move her father made with wide, fearful eyes. When she began gnawing on the top of her carrot plushie, she calmed a little, but never once took her eyes off of her father. With her ears sticking up, and with the way she nom-nom-nommed on her carrot stuffie, she looked like the world’s saddest rabbit. “Oi, that’s a real heart-ripper of a face,” Butter Fudge said when she turned away from the combined stare of her daughter and Copperquick. “I’ve never seen a mane that shade of green before. She’s pretty. Cheer up, luv, and I’ll give you a snuggle when I’m done.” This promise did nothing to improve the sorrowful foal’s mood. “Moomy, your accent seems a little stronger. Is it because of Copper?” “Might be, Beezy,” Butter Fudge replied and she shrugged her wide withers. “It’s nice hearing a voice from home. I don’t miss home though, not in the slightest.” Too hungry to talk, Copperquick tucked into his food. He started with a buttery, cheesy baby red potato that still had the skin on it—of course it still had the skin on it, he realised. In Canterlot, where there were a plethora of unicorns, potatoes were peeled because the skins were dirty. Potato peeling was no simple task for earth ponies, who tended to toss their tubers into the pot with their skins intact. This was not the upscale, trendy flavours of Canterlot, this was downright rustic. Salty, buttery, cheesy, peppery, the taste was like a slap in the face that woke all of his senses. Nothing complicated that you needed a sophisticated palate to appreciate, everything was simple and straightforward, take it or leave it. Without realising that he was doing so, Copperquick lived up to his namesake and began to gobble down his food. Nopony else was using silverware and there was none even laid out on the table. There was a lot of lip smacking and slurping, sure signs that he was far, far away from Canterlot. He always felt out of place eating with unicorns, because he had real trouble with trying to use silverware. Here, in this place, he was free to be himself without judgment, sneers, or snide glances… and it was glorious. “Beezy…” Hearing Midge’s voice was quite a shock. It was a raspy baritone, which Copperquick did not expect—nopony would expect—to come from the slight little pegasus. He turned just in time to watch Buttermilk—Beezy—lift her head up from her plate. She had a baked bean stuck to her snoot, and for reasons he could not explain, it made her beautiful. “Yes, Daddums?” After a long pause, Midge asked, “What has this done to your grades?” “Oh.” Buttermilk seemed surprised by this question, but Copperquick couldn’t be certain. She squirmed a bit, perhaps she was still a filly on the inside that worried about what her father thought, and it took her a few moments to respond. “Daddums, my coursework is mostly done. Almost everything now is hooves on stuff… real world stuff, not classroom stuff. I’ve completed my required one-thousand hours as an intern. All of this has made my grades, if you could call them that at this point, go up. I guess… I don’t know for certain. I get progress scores now, and not grades, and so far all of my progress scores have consistently remained over ninety percent.” “Huh.” Midge stared at his daughter for a moment, blinked once, dropped his muzzle back down to his plate, and resumed eating. Copperquick’s eyes darted over to Buttermilk just in time to see a wide smile spread over her face and she looked quite pleased with herself. Her eyes, bright, shiny, were now misty and her ears settled into a splayed-out nine-o'clock and three-o’clock position. One little ‘huh’ had made her happy, so perhaps this was high praise coming from her father? He didn’t know, but it left him curious. Esmeralda, who swayed from side to side holding her plush carrot, had this to say: “Foosh.” She delivered this statement with as much eloquence and aplomb as she could muster, still looking rather distraught, but there was something else in her eyes that could only be described as devious intelligence. She was, as her father was quick to point out, a manipulator, and she knew how to get her father’s attention. Copperquick was the first to notice and he almost choked on his food as his eyebrows took off and flew north, off to discover new and exciting territories free of stink. Lifting his head, he coughed, and a second later, Buttermilk was fanning the air in frantic desperation with her wings. Midge’s pompadour lost its poomf and fell flat upon his head, the slick strands falling down into his eyes. The only pony unphased by the sudden deadly miasma was Butter Fudge, who leaned back into her chair and sniffed. “Oi, that’s healthy,” she remarked, not bothered by the death fog in the slightest. “Formula… it just isn’t good for foals, but goat’s milk is. It’s quite rich, you know. Little Esme quite seemed to enjoy it, but I don’t think her stomach is used to anything that rich. Oi.” “Egads.” Copperquick managed to choke out the word but could do nothing else. “What’s wrong with all of you? It’s not like you lot have never cracked one off, I’m sure.” The big mare inhaled, breathing through her nose, and then turned to look at her daughter. “If this bothers you, Beezy, you’re in the wrong line of work.” “I left the farm while my nose still functioned,” Buttermilk replied and she covered her face with her wings. “Oi, Copper, I hope you like sleeping with the windows open—” “Moomy!” “—because Beezy is a buzzy little bee and her backside packs quite a sting.” “My life is over.” Rolling her eyes, Buttermilk pushed her plate away, let heave a sigh of exasperation, and then her head clonked down upon the table, snoot first. This pushed her glasses into her face and caused her features to distort, an effect visible from the sides. It appeared as though she had melted into the table and several strands of her mane came loose from her bun. Butter Fudge pushed herself away from the table, her barrel rising and falling with her laughter, and she made a dismissive wave with her hoof. “I have this. All of you relax, I’ll look after the little stinker. I’ve missed doing this.” Esmeralda, all too glad for the attention, now appeared quite pleased. She smiled, she burbled, and began blowing spit bubbles of victory. Squeezing her carrot, she bounced around a bit, which caused her ears to flop, and then she fell over onto her back when Butter Fudge drew near. “Flebirbeberb,” Esmeralda flebirbeberbed and she began to kick her hind legs around with glee. “Oi, you’re cute.” Butter Fudge, still unphased by the face-melting fumes, smiled down at the little filly while lowering her head. “I’m going to give to you a bath in my sink just like I used to do with little Beezy when she had a blowout. As a little teeny, tiny, teensy weensy pegasus, she had dreadful fun breaking the wind, but she lacked the proper muscle control.” “Over. So over.” Buttermilk’s words were muffled by the table that her face was mushed against and she covered her head with her wings. Humming a happy maternal tune, Butter Fudge lifted Esmeralda from the floor—picking her up by the nape of her neck—and carried her off to the sink so that the foal could get cleaned up before going out with them to the movie. Meanwhile, those at the table tried to recover. Copperquick and Midge looked down at their plates, hoping for their appetites to come back, very much like the birds of spring returning from their sojourn, and Buttermilk’s dignity needed time to recuperate from the savage discomfiture visited upon her by her mother.